


The Adventure Of The Resident Patient (1881)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [31]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arguing, Destiel - Freeform, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Multi, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Spying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Holmes investigates a case that is a little too close to home, and Watson is definitely not jealous. Not at all. No way.And there is soap.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorialove121](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorialove121/gifts).



The Victorians, it has often been said, were all about family, and this is a story about family. Holmes' family. 

I do not even have to look up to know that he is rolling his eyes just now!

The reader will remember that although my friend had five elder brothers, there was still some familial pressure on him to marry and produce an heir. Of his brothers, I knew that he did not think much of Mycroft, the eldest, and held some affection for Mycroft's twin Lucius, whom I had not yet met. I have already mentioned the obnoxious, oleaginous and generally repulsive Bacchus (whom I did not like much), and had yet to meet Gaylord and Ranulph (and in both cases, it would turn out that I had been blest thereon.)

Five months had elapsed since our the explosive (yes, and embarrassing!) Manor House Case, during which there had been a steady stream of mostly uninteresting cases. That does not include the ones Holmes turned down; to confirm one question I was often asked in later years, yes; he was around this time actually requested (albeit by the sister of a duchess) to find a lost fountain-pen. I have rarely seen the great detective lost for words, but that was one such day. To his credit, he took (and solved) that 'case'; I recall that he was amused by my rolling around with laughter after the lady had left, in between telling me what he would do to me if I ever published or even mentioned.... oops!

+~+~+

My story about the “Gloria Scott” case had been published in the “Strand” magazine at the start of the year. It received a generally positive reception, and I had thought little more of it until June, when I was approached by the well-known publishers, Brett & Burke. They had been assembling a book containing twenty-four detective stories, each written by a different writer, and one had pulled out at the last minute, so they asked if they could use my story. I felt a little irked at being brought on as a 'substitute' in this way, but their payment was generous and Holmes agreed, so I said yes. The book sold well and I received a useful extra sum of money as a result, which made my bank manager almost come perilously close to a near-smile.

The sales of the compendium were pushed by the book's reviews, which were very positive, two reviewers singling out my efforts for particular praise. It was then September and, unbeknownst to me, Holmes was again having difficulties with his family. Unhappily, I made the mistake of asking him what he thought of my efforts at the same time, and he had sniffed that I 'tended towards the over-dramatic'. The criticism had stung, and I had retorted that that was what people wanted in such things. He had looked startled by my reaction, but I had stormed off to my room in a show of petulance that my teenage self would have been proud of.

I was still cross with him the following day, and unusually he disappeared out immediately after breakfast, saying that he had to get something. I wondered glumly if he had a new case, and did not wish for me to accompany him. It would have served me right if he had so chosen. Sighing, I packed my bag and left for the surgery.

It was, almost predictably, a particularly long and trying day. Around half of the patients I saw had nothing really wrong with them; they just wanted to spend money to be told that they had acquired some illness that they could talk about with their friends. I felt particularly grouchy, and left the surgery as soon as I had got rid of my last patient, who had thought a mild autumn cough enough reason to see a doctor. Honestly!

I stomped back to our rooms, and was almost grateful to find no sign of my room-mate. Or so I thought, until I saw a small jewellery-box at my place on our table, with a folded piece of card on top of it. The single-word message read 'Sorry!'. I smiled, in spite of myself, then removed it and opened the box.

Then I gasped. 

Four months ago. It had been just after Holmes and I had visited Sergeant Henriksen at his station to discuss a minor case. My friend had wanted to buy his sister an engagement present, so I had agreed to tag along whilst he shopped for it. He had purchased her a gold necklace from a small jewellery shop, wherein I had been entranced by a solid gold amulet, in the shape of a devil's head but with a strange symbol on it. I had asked about it, and the shop-owner had explained it was the letters A, O and V combined, for the saying _omnia vincit amor_ – love conquers all. Despite the mushy sentiment I had been entranced by it, but as I said, it was solid gold, and there was no way I could have afforded such a bauble. But Holmes, damn him, had remembered.

“Hullo, Watson.”

I looked up, and he was standing at the door to his room, looking uncertainly at me. The room must not have been dusted that day, for I had unaccountable water in my eyes. That had to be it.

“I would wish you to wear that on special occasions”, he said softly, still not approaching. “Whenever I see it, I will be reminded of the value of your friendship, which I know that I do not always appreciate. I am sorry that I was so unfeeling this morning.”

It was at times like this that I really wished Victorian Man was allowed to express himself more fully. Shaking my friend's hand and thanking him seemed poor reward for such an act of unwarranted generosity. But it was one of many occasions on which I learnt that the great mind was accompanied by an even greater heart.

+~+~+

I was tentatively writing up my notes for the story of the Musgrave Ritual when we happened across our next case. Or to be more exact, our next case happened across us. It was only a minor matter and no crime was involved as such, but it was important in that it shed light on several aspects of my friend that had hitherto remained hidden from me, which is why I have included it in the canon. That, and the total lack of sympathy I felt for the 'victim', who fully deserves to have their foibles exposed to the world!

(Whilst rewriting this story in our later years, my friend made a most untoward remark about the exposing of foibles, one that was quite uncalled for. Everyone knows that I did not mean it in that way!).

As I have said, on our arrival in Cramer Street the house was actually owned by Mrs. Evadne Hall, whose fragrant presence had so alarmed me upon our first encounter. Fortunately, as had been promised, she concerned herself primarily with her house in Belgravia, leaving the management of Cramer Street to her sister, Miss Letitia Hellingly. A much smaller (and blessedly far less pungent) character, she always looked almost apologetic when either Holmes or I handed over our weekly rent. Her servants kept our rooms adequately clean and her cook was passable enough, but she rarely ventured upstairs herself, confining herself to her own suite at the back of the house. It was therefore with some surprise that I returned from work one day to find Miss Hellingly in our suite of rooms, talking to Holmes. 

For some reason, it was only at that moment that it struck me that both of them were unmarried and fairly attractive people. I did not know why (or I did, and did not wish to think about it), but that observation made me feel uneasy. 

Miss Hellingly was clearly somewhat perturbed at my return, and swiftly took her leave. Holmes sighed.

“It may be that our dear landlady had provided us with a potential case”, he said. 

I was somewhat distracted at this moment, as Miss Hellingly's presence had caused me to run over Holmes' singular lack of interest in the fairer sex more or less ever since I had known him. It is the way of the world, of course, than a young buck will have sex with anything that moves, and for that matter anything that doesn't, but we were both approaching an age when we would be expected to settle down with a wife and start raising a family. Depressingly, I would be one year past twenty-nine in four months' time, and over two and half years before Holmes, which was blatantly unfair!

Given our circumstances, both of us had to careful in selecting potential partners. I needed someone at least financially secure, whilst he would probably have to win his family's approval, an even higher hurdle. He could do a lot worse than our landlady, and worse, she was going to the United States in a few years, so he.....

“Watson?”

He was looking at me in confusion. I blushed.

“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere”, I said. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

He looked at me uncertainly, but did not push the issue.

“Miss Hellingly is concerned over her newest tenant, a young gentleman who has taken Room Three”, he said. “She is, I think, a little paranoid simply because he refuses to admit the maid to his rooms, and insist that his washing is collected and returned outside his door.”

“They probably just value their privacy”, I said. “Though I would wager Miss Hellingly thinks that he is a secret axe-murderer!”

“Our landlady is also quite observant”, Holmes said, looking hard at me for some reason. “She may not stoop to listening at keyholes, but on passing the room the other day, she was certain that she heard a lady's voice.”

“Highly improper”, I said. “If she thinks that that sort of thing is going on in her own house, then she would be quite within her rights to give the man a week's notice.”

To my surprise, Holmes blushed. What was going on?

“It is the case”, he said slowly, “that, ahem, a certain amount of romance may be involved.”

I stared at him in surprise. Holmes and Miss Hellingly? Had I been right, after all? My heart sank.

“So that is why she wants you to investigate”, I said, a little dourly. “Well, if she has a great detective on hand, I suppose that it is only natural.”

He nodded, and at that moment the bell rang to inform us that dinner was ready for our attention. Our conversation ended there, and I felt inexplicably grumpy for the rest of the evening.

+~+~+

Two weeks later, the carelessness of a housemaid brought a whole new aspect to the mystery of Room Three.

The surgery I worked at lay in a row of houses, and on the afternoon in question, a fire occurred at the house next door. This, it later emerged, was due to a housemaid leaving a fire unattended. Fortunately London's finest were soon on the scene and were able to douse the flames, although the house in question was badly damaged. Worse, they insisted that we quit the surgery until structural engineers had checked it for damage. As that would not be until the early evening, our remaining appointments were rescheduled, and I was thus back at Cramer Street some hours ahead of my time. Which may have been why I saw an unusual if not unknown sight outside our house.

The carriage of Sir Charles Holmes. 

I wondered if he had come to see his youngest son or, possibly, myself, and went on up to our rooms. Holmes was not there, but as I took off my coat I heard the sound of someone leaving Room Three on the floor below. Stepping out of my door and peering over the balcony, I was surprised to recognize the unmistakable red curly hair and powder-blue dress of Miss Anna Holmes, Sir Charles' only daughter, whom Holmes had pointed out to me one time. 

And she was emerging from Room Three! I stared at her in shock. 

It would, of course, be my bad luck that Miss Hellingly chanced to come down the same corridor at that precise moment (I wondered cattily how many times she had patrolled the corridor since Miss Holmes' arrival), and meet her. They conversed briefly, and judging from the way the visitor gestured upwards, I assumed that she was ascertaining if her brother was at home. I realized this a moment too late, for she glanced up and saw me, and even though I backed away quickly, I was sure that was I saw on her face was alarm, if not fear. Certain it was that she did not come up, but swiftly left the house.

I briefly considered questioning Miss Hellingly as to our noble visitor, but decided to desist, for now at least. I had a more pressing problem, namely whether to inform Holmes that his sister had visited in his absence, and had conversed with the mysterious stranger in Room Three. Or – and I shuddered at the thought – what if she had been the female whose voice had been heard? Was she conducting some sort of illicit liaison with the occupant, and if so, why on earth was she doing it right next to where her own brother was living? 

I needed a drink.

+~+~+

I eventually decided not to say anything to Holmes about his sister. Of course, I should have known better.

“What has upset you, Watson?” he asked over dinner that evening. Miss Hellingly's cook had for once surpassed herself with a curried meat dish that had been divine, and we were both sat by the fire, comfortably full (there had been ice-cream rather than pie for dessert, but one could not have everything). “You have been off ever since I got home.”

“Did you go out on a case today?” I said, trying to deflect.

He clearly saw my tactics, but chose to answer my question.

“Every so often I go and meet Luke at my club, and use the gymnasium facilities”, he said. “My occupation is fairly sedentary, so I need the exercise.”

I instinctively pulled in my own very small gut. He did not smirk, but it was close.

“You are upset over the lady who visited Room Three earlier this afternoon?” he asked.

Damnation! He must have spoken to Miss Hellingly when he had come in.

“Not exactly who I was expecting”, I muttered.

“A slightly smaller than average height woman wearing a blue dress, with either red or dyed hair.”

“Miss Hellingly did not mention her name?” I asked.

“I have not spoken to our estimable landlady today.”

“Then how could you know....?”

“There was a blue thread caught in the bannister, which was not there when I left after lunch”, he said. “There was also a single red hair in front of the doorway when I returned. The lady is obviously very well-off.”

“How could you know that?” I asked, wondering if he was teasing me.

“She came in her own carriage”, Holmes said. “A four-wheeled vehicle was parked for some considerable time in front of our house, long enough to leave an indentation in the road surface, and a small paint marking smeared onto the kerb. Our city's hansom drivers do not usually go to the expense of painting their vehicle's wheels in bright colours.”

“You know full well who it was!” I said, exasperatedly.

“Do I?” he asked, seemingly confused.

“It was your own sister!”

Ah. Judging from his reaction, that was about the only thing that he had not known. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.

“You are sure?” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet.

“I saw the carriage outside”, I told him. “And I saw her come out of the room.”

“Did she see you?”

“Yes. I am afraid that she did.”

He pursed his lips. There was another overly long silence.

“I think that I should pay a call on my sister tomorrow”, he said. “I am sorry, Watson, but in the circumstances, I would rather do it alone.”

“It is family”, I assured him. “I understand.”

He smiled weakly at me. 

+~+~+

The whole business of Holmes' sister's visit to the house bothered me, as I could not make head nor tail of it. Why would Miss Anna Holmes be seeing someone right next to where she must have known her brother lived, yet without telling him? And Holmes had definitely brought her an engagement present that time at the jeweller's. Eventually I determined to think no more on the matter, and to enjoy a rare Friday off.

Those plans were somewhat curtailed, however, when I heard a terrible scream from outside my door. I hurried out and looked over the stairwell, and saw Miss Hellingly leaning back against the bannister, looking as white as a ghost. I immediately hurried down to her, and escorted her to my room – damn propriety, this was an emergency! - where I gave her a large brandy. I sat her by the fire, and eventually some colour returned to her cheeks. She looked at me, clearly still shocked.

“Doctor Watson!” she gasped. “It was horrible!”

“What was?” I asked.

“That.... 'thing' in Room Three!” she gasped. “I was making my rounds just now...”

(Eavesdropping again, I translated).

“... and he opened the door to fetch in his paper. It was ghastly! His face was all wrapped up, like.... like... like one of those terrible Egyptian mummy things!”

I poured her another brandy, which she downed in two goes. Quite impressive, really.

“He could just be an injured soldier, from one of the wars”, I pointed out gently. “Doctors often bandage up faces to prevent wounds getting infected, you know.”

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Then why did that lady the other day say that he was her brother?” she demanded.

“She may have been lying”, I suggested delicately. Apparently not delicately enough, for Miss Hellingly went pale again.

“I need Eric”, she said, much to my confusion.

“Who is Eric?” I asked, causing her to turn a red that nearly matched her dress.

“”My..... my gentleman friend”, she admitted reluctantly. “He is a doctor, like your good self.”

Well, at least that meant she was not seeing Holmes. My mood lightened for some reason.

“You should send a servant round and ask him to call”, I suggested. “I think that, in the circumstances, he would wish to be here for you.”

She nodded vigorously, and I escorted her from the room. 

+~+~+

I liked to think by the time that, in our seven years of acquaintanceship and five years of co-habitation I had come to know Holmes fairly well. Events at the start of that evening, however, made me reconsider that belief.

The man had arrived back from his sister's house, and he was clearly livid! What made it more impressive was that there was no shouting or yelling, just a focussed silence that, in many ways, was infinitely worse. He virtually threw himself into his fireside chair after dinner, clearly still seething. I wanted to ask about his visit, but was actually afraid to.

“My father is coming round later”, he said once dinner was over and done with. 

“Would you like me to step out?” I offered. I could hardly go to my room and eavesdrop on his conversation (unlike some landladies I could mention, a part of me added, far too cattily). 

“No.”

Apparently that was a no, then. He said nothing more, but stared morosely into the fire.

+~+~+

It seemed an eternity before Sir Charles was shown in by a clearly impressed Miss Hellingly (I fervently hoped that she would not embarrass herself by patrolling the corridor during his visit, though thankfully her gentleman friend had arrived at the same time as I had returned, which might keep her otherwise engaged). I instinctively wanted to thank the nobleman for his help in my becoming a doctor, but the positively Arctic chill generated by the great detective made me hold back.

“I should leave and let you talk”, I said, heading (escaping) towards my door.

“No!” Holmes said, to my surprise. “Stay, Watson. What my dear father has to say concerns you as well.”

“I hardly think that this is wise, son”, Sir Charles said, and I could see that he was strangely nervous.

“You passed 'wise' some time ago”, his son growled. 

To my surprise, his father bowed his head.

“I deserved that”, he said.

“You did”, his son said acidly. “I had never been ashamed to be a Holmes until this happened.”

“Until what happened?” I asked, bewildered.

“Tell him”, Holmes ordered. Sir Charles sighed, and turned to me.

“You have been a good friend to my son, Doctor Watson”, he said gravely. “Indeed....”

He stopped, seemingly lost. I stared at him in confusion.

“Father!” Holmes snapped. His father looked annoyed, but did not reprove him.

“My sons, Gaylord and Bacchus. They became convinced, following your publication of Sherlock's first case, that you had ulterior motives in your friendship towards him.”

I blinked. Now I was even more confused.

“What?” I managed eventually. “He will tell you, I offered him half of all proceeds from the book. He declined.”

“It was not just the book”, Sir Charles muttered. “They thought that you were..... corrupting Sherlock.”

“Corrupting him how?” I asked, still totally at sea.

“Bodily”, Holmes said simply. “Father thinks that we are dating. And having sex.”

How I did not have a seizure there and then, I do not know. I wanted to voice my feelings to such a suggestion, but words failed me. 

“Have some understanding!” Sir Charles said, almost pleadingly. “Until you have children of your own, doctor, you cannot know what it is like to worry about them, no matter how old they are. Any perceived threat would make any decent parent move to counter it.”

“By setting up a spy in another room in the lodgings he shares with his alleged 'lover'” Holmes said bitterly. “I presume that I was right in assuming that it was my trickster brother who came here to spy on us both?”

“Gaylord insisted on doing it himself”, Sir Charles said. 

Holmes suddenly had that dangerous gleam in his eye that, quite frankly, terrified me. Not for the last time, I thanked the Lord that he had never become a criminal. He would have ruled London more surely than our dear queen ruled her Empire!

“You owe Watson an apology”, Holmes said firmly. “He and I have a friendship, nothing more, and we are both very happy with that. To suggest that there is more is not just folly, it is insulting.”

“You moved in with him”, his father pointed out. “ _And_ moved to stay with him. There is definitely an air of permanence about this.”

“I am a difficult person to live with for over ninety-nine point nine per cent of the human race”, Holmes sighed. “I know that. Watson, saint that he is, more than tolerates my ups and downs.”

I preened, whilst trying not to snigger at the mention of ups and downs (yes, my occasional schoolboy sense of humour showed its usual bad timing!). My friend saw my reaction, and a small smile creased the corner of his mouth.

“Besides”, Holmes went on, “Watson helps me with my cases, not just in publicizing them. He has a straightforwardness that keeps me grounded.”

I preened a little more. Sir Charles seemed shocked by his youngest son's vehemence. Finally he nodded.

“I understand”, he said. “And I am sorry that I allowed this to go as far as it did. But I so find it difficult to let go....”

“Father, I am twenty-seven years of age”, Holmes said, sounding almost impatient. “It really is time that you learnt to trust me.”

“I do trust you, son”, the nobleman said. “And I am proud of what you do. Well, the detecting thing.”

Holmes nodded, and seemingly relaxed a little.

“Did you go and see Gaylord on the way up?” he asked.

“Yes”, he said, “but he was dozing. You know the hours that he keeps!”

Holmes nodded. The light in the eyes had been joined by an evil smile. I did not tremble; it was just cold in the room.

“I should be going”, Sir Charles sighed. “At least....”

He got no further, for the door to our rooms burst open and a young man all but fell into our room. He had dirty blond hair and a long nose, but the most remarkable thing about him was the virulent red blotches all over his face and neck. He looked at us in horror.

“Father!” he blurted out.

Ah. This must be Gaylord Holmes. He looked briefly (and guiltily, I noticed) at his brother, then hurried over to me. 

“Miss Hellingly says that you are a doctor”, he said urgently. “Please, you have to take a look at me!”

“Sit over at the table”, I ordered, “and I will fetch my medical gloves so that I can examine you safely. If you have something infectious, we do not wish to risk spreading it around.”

He followed my instructions, and I went to my room to fetch my gloves. On returning, I saw the nobleman looking anxiously at his stricken son. Holmes, however, looked almost smug. Curious.

I carefully examined Gaylord Holmes' face, where some of the marks were now turning an alarming shade of purple. I had a sudden feeling that I knew exactly what had caused the man's problems. I tentatively sniffed at one of the marks, and suppressed a smile when I recognized the smell. Straightening my face, I stood back and faced my patient.

“This is very serious”, I said firmly. “In all my years of medicine, it is one of the worst cases of I.F.M. - Inritaris Fratris Maioris - that I have ever come across. There is no medical treatment for this dreadful disease.”

The man's eyes widened in horror.

“Doctor!” he wailed. “Please!”

I noticed that Holmes had turned away to the fire, presumably to hide his expression if his slightly shaking shoulders were anything to go by. Presumably Sir Charles too had understood my Latin reference, because he too was looking faintly amused. At that timely moment, I remembered what else my detective friend had said about his brother, and decided to push the knife in further. And why not?

“However, a complete change of diet is usually effective in stopping this malady in its tracks”, I said. “You must avoid any sweet things, and particularly confectionery, for at least six months. Preferably a year.”

The man looked like I had struck him.

“No sweets?” he gasped in horror.

“Not a single one”, I insisted. “Just one solitary lollipop could cause the current infection to spread to your whole body. And in this disease, the next area to be affected after the face is always the, um, male organs.”

I thought for a moment that he was going to have a seizure. Fortunately for him, his sufferings were brought to an end when Holmes let out a huge guffaw of laughter and collapsed into his chair.

“Oh, Watson, you are a genius!” he chuckled. "Inritaris fratris maioris? That was brilliant!”

“What is so funny?” Gaylord Holmes demanded, pouting. His father took pity on him.

“Gaylord, 'inritaris fratris maioris' is Latin for 'irritating elder brothers'!” he explained. He looked at his youngest son and grinned. “Soap?” he asked.

Holmes nodded. The nobleman turned back to his elder son.

“Holmes knew who you were”, he explained, “and he must have slipped into your room to replace your usual soap with a special abrasive one, which causes the skin to blister. My so-called friends used it on me once at school. Do not worry, son. It fades after twenty-four hours.”

“But it does leave purple marks for some days”, Holmes said, smiling cheerfully. I was pleased to see him looking so happy. “Serves you right, brother!”

“I was only doing it for your welfare!” Gaylord Holmes grumbled. “And now look at me!”

“I think that everyone will be looking at you for a while”, his father remarked. He turned back to his youngest son. “I am truly sorry that we did not trust your judgement, Sherlock. We will know better in future.”

Holmes nodded. The nobleman took his still blushing elder son and left.

“Thank you for that” my friend smiled. “I thought you might tell him the truth straight off.”

“After the way he and his family treated you?” I asked. “Absolutely no way! He deserved to suffer a little longer. Though that is the first time I have ever knowingly lied to a patient.”

We ordered some coffee, and talked happily on matters familial for the rest of the evening. I sat on the couch writing up my case notes, and Holmes lay next to me, the lost cause that was his untidy hair as bad as ever. No wonder his father had thought.....

I smiled at the ridiculousness of such an idea.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would be Holmes' first experience of the Welsh March, as we entered the beautiful western reaches of the county of Montgomeryshire. There we would encounter Vanderbilt - and the Yeggman!


End file.
